


Portrait of a Dead Man

by SparkleMoose



Series: Portrait of a Dead Man [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: A Major Character Dies But He Comes Back So It’s Good, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Gen, Surviving the Apocalypse with Atlas and Friends, Temporary Character Death, The Long Night, YET ANOTHER ROYAL BASTARD AU, can’t stop won’t stop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:53:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22398127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparkleMoose/pseuds/SparkleMoose
Summary: It starts with a man with no memory remembering he’s the son of a King.It ends with the two brothers giving themselves over to light.(Or that one where the Ring isn’t the only thing that can make a Wall and Atlas is so, so tired.)
Relationships: Libertus Ostium & Original Male Character
Series: Portrait of a Dead Man [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1612063
Comments: 13
Kudos: 160





	Portrait of a Dead Man

**Author's Note:**

> *gestures at the major character death* he comes back though so its fine

Atlas had been an odd child, his long fingers digging into everything and anything they could. Wide violet eyes darting from place to place as though his curiosity would never be sated. Never be satisfied by what his mother told him, by what information books held nor by stories passed down from one generation to the next.

Atlas had been a curious child, a troublesome thing that cause those in his village to laugh and roll their eyes whenever news came that he got himself into trouble again.

This, at least, Atlas can remember. He can remember the warm sands of Galahd, the way his mother smelled of mango and salt water. He remembers the opal beads delicately braided into her hair and how he was endlessly fascinated by the way the light caught on them.

Atlas can remember his childhood at least.

He doesn’t remember much else. A side effect of death, he supposes, more than certain that he died when Insomnia fell. He remembers moving to Insomnia for some reason, wringing his hands as he paced back and forth in his room. He remembers stalling for time, that he had something important to do but he can’t remember what it was that make him pace the halls of his apartment so nervously.

It doesn’t matter, he thinks, leaning back against the truck that’s ferrying him and some other Glaives to their next mission. It doesn’t matter what plagued him in the past because the world’s gone to shit and he may be a walking corpse but he’s a walking corpse with magic and that makes him valuable. It makes him a protector, and although Atlas’ memory of his time in Insomnia is fuzzy and something about being called ‘Glaive’ seems off to him he still has a duty to protect those that need it.

The world has gone to shit, their King is either dead or missing and Atlas can’t sit by and let people suffer when he has magic gifted to him by someone (or something, a voice in his mind whispers) and can help them.

So he helps, he takes missions with other Glaives. He slays daemons and wildlife and as the nights get longer and longer and the sun becomes red in the sky he does his best to keep Lestallum and everyone else safe. No one seems to think that he’s anything other than a Glaive even if Libertus seems wary of him, as though the Captain has never seen him before.

He knows, Atlas thinks, he knows I’m not a Glaive. That thought is shoved aside however, when someone yells for help from outside and Atlas goes running.

* * *

There is a coffin on the back of a truck. A coffin housing the decayed corpse of a Queen and Atlas can’t help but think that it was a waste of resources to bring it here. Gas is being rationed and if he finds out that they wasted gas to go and drag a coffin out of its tomb Atlas thinks he will lose the respect he has for the Hunter and Glaive that come piling out of the truck.

He banishes his spear back into the Armiger in a flash of white crystal before he turns his attention to the truck now safely inside Lestallum. It looks none the worse for wear, and neither the Glaive nor the Hunter seem to be shaken by the ordeal they just underwent which Atlas supposes is a good sign.

Atlas turns his gaze to the coffin. There is something uncanny about it, an energy surrounding it that makes Atlas think the dead Queen is still here and watching. Just being in it’s presence makes his magic uncoil itself and purr like a content cat.

Hearth, home, safety, his magic tells him, Queen of Lucis, Oracle-King. Healer and Protector both. Safe.

Atlas shoves his magic down and refocuses in on the conversation the Glaive and Hunter are having with Cor and Libertus.

“-we could store them in the basement of the Hotel,” the Hunter suggests, “Keep it safe. Just because the world is going to shit and we don’t know who this King is doesn’t mean we shouldn’t respect them or loseparts of our history.”

“Queen,” Atlas corrects, gaze still intent on the coffin, “Queen Vesta Lucis Caelum.” And Atlas is aware of the eyes on him now, the way Cor stares at him with steely eyes and suspicion and Atals can’t blame him for that. Atlas as himself is a bit wary about how he knows that. It’s not as though he can tell them that his magic told him who this was.

They don’t need a Lucis Caelum, they need a Glaive who can get things done and that’s why Atlas has moulded himself into. Someone they can rely on in tough times and he hates that he suddenly knows why he was in Insomnia when it fell.

I was planning on telling the King, he thinks, I was going to tell the King I’m his son.

But the city fell.

But Atlas died.

But it was too late to tell anyone anything; and so when he is asked how he knew who it is within the coffin he’s going to lie.

The Oracle herself has other plans. Her weapon, a trident ghostly white and glowing rises from somewhere within the coffin itself. Atlas takes a step back, eyes wide and disbelieving and somewhere Libertus demands to know what’s going on.

Atlas himself doesn’t know. He knows that that trident is a weapon belonging to the Royal Family. He knows that he can feel the crystalline magic in the air around him and he takes another step backwards away from the trident.

It doesn’t help, the moment his magic uncurls itself from where Atlas had unceremoniously shoved it the glow of the trident gets brighter. Libertus steps forward, about to do something but Cor stops him with a firm grip on his shoulder.

“Let it happen,” Cor commands.

“Let what happen?” Libertus retorts, ripping his shoulder out of Cor’s grasp, “What the fuck is going on?”

“There’s a Lucis Caelum here-“ And suddenly Atlas can feel both Libertus and Cor’s gaze on him, “-The Trident merely seeks to find them.”

Family, Atlas’ magic is a chorus in his mind as it reaches out without his permission to the Oracle, heath and home and safety. The moment Atlas’ magic, light and sweet as the wind touches the warm fire of the Oracles magic, the trident spins and rams itself into Atlas’ chest. Piercing him through the heart before disappearing and integrating itself into his armiger.

Atlas’ heart plummets to the bottom of the ocean.

“Oh,” Atals says, hand coming up to rest over his heart, “Fuck.”

* * *

There are explanations that Atlas doesn’t want to give.

Had he known who his father was? Yes. Did he lie about having amnesia? No, he had really forgotten what happened in Insomnia. Why didn’t he say anything when he remembered who he was?

“You don’t need a prince,” Atlas said when that question was asked, “You need another soldier.”

“We need hope,” Cor argues, voice steady and cold, “You could be that hope.”

Atlas snorts. “And how would that work?” Atlas says, “A reminder of a dead line that failed them? They need to move on Marshal, not live in the past.”

Libertus sighs and catches the other two men’s attention.

“Can you make a Wall?” Libertus asks Atlas, “That would be a signal of hope, or survival if there ever was one.” And Atlas pauses, because he doesn’t know if he could, if it would even be feasible for him to attempt to do such a thing with his magic as it is.

“He can’t,” Cor says before Atlas can think anymore on it, “The Ring was what allowed the Kings to hold the Wall steady. Attempting to create one without it would result in his death.”

Something like horrified realization cross Libertus face. “You mean-“

“The Wall kills whoever holds it up,” Cor confirms, “The Ring slows the process, but it will still kill the user in the end.”

I would be willing, Atlas thinks, I would be willing to give my life if it meant the others would be safe.

“Huh,” he says instead, “That sucks.”

No one comments. Then slowly, an idea dawns on Atlas.

“Could I-“ he pauses, uncomfortable with the attention being on him, “Could I give magic to others like King Regis did? What little magic users we have cannot be enough to guarantee our survival. And while magic isn’t a cure all we’d at least give people a better chance at surviving in the field.”

“We’d have to train them,” Cor points out, “Magic isn’t something easily granted or used.”

“I’m aware,” Atlas says, “But you’ve overseen the training of many, haven’t you? And since you’re rarely out of Lestallum, I figured that you’d be the perfect teacher.”

“There’s the matter of whether those who want it can use it,” Libertus adds, “The screening process for the Glaive was quite thorough, you have to have a certain aptitude for magic to join.”

“I didn’t know that, but the fact remains, more magic users can only strength our chances of keeping our people safe.”

Cor is silent. And when the Marshal finally speaks he sounds tired.

“You are right,” Cor says, “Come then, I’ll teach you how to transfer your magic. There is one thing you need to know, the more people you give your magic to the weaker you’ll get. Is that a risk you are willing to take?”

“Yes,” Atlas says, “It is.”

* * *

“So,” Gutsco says on the next mission they’re on together, “What does His Majesty think we should do?”

“Fuck off, Gutsco,” Atlas scowls at him from across the back of the truck. Beside Altas, Jenica snorts.

“What?” She taunts, “You don’t like being royalty?”

“I much preferred it when I didn’t know for certain who my father was,” Atlas says dryly, “It was easier that way.”

“You’re just worried they’re gonna lock you up and make you throw up a Wall.”

“Can’t make a Wall without a ring,” Atlas shoots back, “Besides, I much prefer being out here with you miserable lot.”

Gutsco laughs. “Oh, we’re miserable? What about you, little lost princeling?”

“What happened to ‘Your Majesty?’ That’s how you address Kings isn’t it?”

“You might be the last Lucis Caelum we got but that doesn’t make you King material.”

Atlas grins, all teeth and gums. “I wish more people thought like you, you big asshole.”

* * *

Things change. Atlas does not want things to change but they do. The Glaives that he’s grouped with either seem to differ to him even when he’s not the leader of the group or try to protect him and it’s irritating to say the least.

Things change, and Atlas can feel the gaze of Hunters and Glaives on him when he stumbles back to Insomnia after a mission. Can feel the way they judge him and it makes him want to snap. He was not raised to be a King, not raised to lead a dying people nor was he raised to deal with the light of hope that enters others eyes when they see him. It’s as though they expect something more of him and he hates it.

Ducking out of the tent he sleeps in, he scowls as the sun is already setting despite the fact it’s only noon. Making his way to Kimya, Atlas begins helping her make potions and the like. It’s an easy task, turning regular drinks and such into potions. Kimya had to teach Atlas how to make them but once Atlas got the hang of it the production of potions went up drastically.

“You know,” Cid’s gravel touched voice comes from behind Atlas, “I knew your brother.”

“Half-brother,” Atlas corrects, violet eyes not leaving the shelf of potions he’s taking stock of. They’ll need more elixirs soon, he thinks. “You knew my father too, I wager.”

Cid is silent for moment and when Atlas turns he finds Cid eyeing him in a way he didn’t before the news that Atlas is a Lucis Caelum got out.

“I did,” Cid agrees, “You never got to meet them did you?”

“No,” Atlas agrees, “I never did.”

“They were good men, you lot would have gotten along.”

Atlas scoffs. “You can’t know that.”

“Not for sure,” Cid agrees, “But I have a gut feeling that you lot would have loved each other. It’s the way family is, you see?”

Atlas rolls his eyes and turns back to the shelf of potions. “Is there something you needed, Cid?” He asks, “I highly doubt you came over here to talk to me for no reason.”

“Can’t a man want to talk to the son of an old friend?”

“Not if that old friend was a King.”

“I made something I want you test out,” Cid says finally getting to the point, “If all goes to plan we should have a Wall around Lestallum fuelled by your magic.”

Atlas pauses. When word had gotten out about what Atlas was people had demanded him to erect a Wall around Lestallum; the disgusted looks he had received when Cor had backed him up and told everyone that he couldn’t make a Wall without a catalyst like the Ring was disheartening.

“You know it’ll kill me eventually,” Atlas says, turning back to face Cid and crossing his arms, “You know I won’t be able to take any missions outside the city if this works.”

“A risk a King would take,” Cid challenges, “You are hardly the only skilled Glaive out there. Hell, you’re not even a Glaive.”

“I’m not a King,” Atlas disagrees, stepping out from behind the counter where he distributes potions, “But I can’t let people suffer needlessly. If this works, if it can grant people even the smallest amount of safety then I’ll do it.”

Cid nods, and Atlas pretends not to see the pride on his face.

“Come on then,” Cid says, “Let’s see if this works.”

* * *

It doesn’t work. Well, not really, for the briefest moment a Wall does sputter to life around Lestallum, drawing shouts of shock and awe from people before it putters out again.

Even that failure leaves Atlas exhausted. Dropping to the streets he crosses his legs and puts his head in his hand.

“Fuck.” Is all he says, all he can say around the ache in his bones and the pounding in his skull.

Cid makes a curious noise. “That almost worked,” he says, “Might have to tinker with it a bit more, but I reckon if I keep at it we could have you building a Wall around Lestallum.”

A part of Atlas wants to snap and say that he’s done, that he won’t cause himself unnecessary pain by holding up a Wall but his heart has always been too big. Too full of love his uncle had said to him once, it’ll hurt you one day.

His uncle turned out to be right, Atlas thinks and raises his head to meet Cid’s concerned gaze.

“How long?” Atlas asks.

“I can’t say,” Cid says, “But it’ll take some time, so I recommend you help the others as much as possible.”

Atlas nods and stands, amazed at how he doesn’t stumble and fall right back on his ass.

“The sooner the better,” he says to Cid and already Atlas feels old.

“I know that, kid,” Cid snorts, “Trust me, I know.”

* * *

“Heard you managed a Wall,” Jenica says while they ride to their destination.

Atlas snorts. “I’d hardly call it a Wall.”

“Still, you managed something,” Jenica insists, “You have to know that people are going to flock to Lestallum now. That you’ve given them hope that all might not be lost.”

It’s been a year and a half since the since started fading and Atlas feels like he’s aged a century in that time.

“Yeah,” he says with a tired smile, “I suppose so.”

* * *

He isn’t sure what he’s doing if he’s honest with himself, isn’t sure that what he’s doing is the right thing or that it will even help in the long but it’s the end of the world and they have to safeguard what they can.

What better way to do that than with magic? And so after Cor goes out on the radio and tells Lucis and whoever else is listening that they’re looking for able men and women to join the Crownsguard and the Glaive Atlas feels like he should be prepared todeal with the fall out.

He isn’t. He most definitely isn’t prepared for the drain that giving those that have been screened and approved by Libertus and Cor gives him. As Atlas sits on the steps leading up to the weapons shop that’s surrounded by new Guards and Glaives looking for better weapons he can’t help but wonder if this is how his father felt all the time.

For some reason, he wouldn’t doubt it if it was.

* * *

Atlas comes back with another weapon in his armiger and the coffin of the Wanderer in tow.

This is bullshit, he thinks, and ignores Vyv’s request for an interview as he has been for the last few months. Ever since word got out that Atlas is a Lucis Caelum of all things people have been asking him for interviews and Atlas doesn’t have time for it. The world is ending and Atlas has supply chains to procure, new Guards and Glaives to train, and monsters and daemons to slay, he doesn’t have time for an interview.

Releasing a deep sigh, Atlas leans against one of the walls near the power plant and tries to will himself to relax.

A young voice interrupts his moment of respite.

“Atlas!” Iris says, and when he opens his eyes he can see her looking up at him, a worried look on his face, “You alright? You look stressed.”

Atlas manages a tired smile. “I’m fine, Iris,” he tries to reassure her, “Just the normal Glaive stress.”

Iris bites her lip and looks away. “The normal Glaive stress huh?” She says, more to herself than anything. When her gaze snaps back to Atlas she looks apologetic. “Gladdy arrived this morning,” she says, “He says he wants to talk to you.”

Atlas snorts. “Talk, huh?” They had met already once,when Atlas was still just a Glaive and not a Lucis Caelum and Atlas knows that Gladio will be wanting to see how Atlas compares to Noctis.

Atlas sighs once more and pushes himself off the wall he had been resting against.

“Suppose that means he wants to fight, huh?” Atlas says and when Iris lets out a weak laugh Atlas can’t help but reach out a hand and ruffle her hair, “Don’t worry about it, it’s not your fault.”

“He took Noctis’ disappearance hard,” Iris says miserably.

“I don’t doubt he did. He was Noctis’ Shield after all, whatever took Noctis was something he was supposed to protect Noctis from.”

Iris blinks. “You understand better than I thought you would.”

Atlas smiles at her.

“We’ve all lost something,” he says, “And it always hurts. You always think to yourself ‘What if I had been better?’ And there’s no closure. Not really when someone gets taken from you suddenly. One day they are there, the next they are gone.”

“Anyway.” Atlas grins at Iris’ shocked face. “I should go and kick your brothers ass now. I’ll see you later, little daemon slayer.”

* * *

There isn’t a fight. Or rather, Atlas refuses to give Gladio what he wants. The Shield wants to test Atlas, to see if Atlas is worthy to bear the name of Lucis Caelum.

Atlas refuses to play that game.

“You are grieving the loss of your friend and king,” Atlas says to him, “But I am not a replacement, despite what others may think, I am not here to claim a throne I do not want or deserve. That is not my job.”

“No?” Gladio sounds mocking and angry and Atlas squashes down the feeling of rage that it brings up in him. “Then what is your job?”

“To protect,” Atlas opens his palm and conjures light to it, “My job is to save as many people as I can, to protect the lives within these walls with my dying breathe if I must. I am more of a knight than a king.”

Gladio is silent, and Atlas lets the light in his palm fade.

“You’re a good man, Gladio,” Atlas says, “Noctis is lucky to have you.”

“Does it matter whether or not I’m a good man?” Gladio asks, “A good man would have kept his promise to his king.”

Atlas can feel his heart ache for the young Shield and so he offers Gladio a small smile.

“It always matters,” Atlas says, turning his gaze to the fading sun, “Whether or not you kept your promise to protect him, to give your life for him doesn’t matter any more. He is gone, you are here. If he is even half the man I heard of then he would want to keep going on. To help all those you can.”

When Atlas turns his gaze back to Gladio he sees Gladio looking at him like he’s seeing Atlas for the first time.

“You’re doing this for them, aren’t you?” Gladio says, “You’re allowing Cid to build that device so you can build a Wall despite knowing what it costs because you want to make your family proud.”

“I am just doing what they would have done,” Atlas laughs, “They’re all gone aren’t they? Someone has to keep up with the family legacy.”

“Yeah,” Gladio says after a moment of silence, “I suppose they do.”

* * *

Gladio stays in Insomnia, occasionally he and Atlas meet up for lunch or are assigned the same missions and they fall into an easy camaraderie.

Prompto comes again, looking less like the wounded puppy he had been when Atlas first met him and more like a wolf steadily growing into his own.

“You miss him,” Atlas tells him when there’s a lull in their conversation, “But you know nothing will bring him back.”

“How do you move on from losing someone you built your whole life around?” Prompto asks.

“You don’t,” Atlas says easily, remembering how once he would have given his life for his small fishing village, “You pick up what remains of that life and use it to build something new. You have more friends than Noctis, Prompto. Gladio and Ignis are there for you too.”

Prompto is quiet.

“Yeah,” he says at last, “I suppose you’re right.”

* * *

Ignis doesn’t come.

Atlas doesn’t expect him too. From what he’s heard from Gladio and Prompto Ignis had taken Noctis’ disappearance especially hard.

Ignis doesn’t come and Atlas doesn’t go looking.

* * *

“Hey,” one of the new recruits, Hawke, Atlas thinks her name is, waves him down.

“Is there a problem?” Atlas asks, brow furrowed.

“Um,” Hawke seems nervous, as do most of the newbies do around him, “We- that is me and the others- we were wondering if you could train us? Just for a bit and only if you’re not busy, Your Majesty!” She bows at the end and only comes up from it when Atlas tells her too.

“None of that,” Atlas tells her and watches her straighten up, “I’d be happy to help, I’m the one that gave you that magic after all, the least I can do is help you learn how to use it.”

Hawke’s relief is palatable. Her shoulders relax and she smiles at Atlas like he’s brought her hope.

“Thank you so much! I promise we won’t let you down!”

* * *

“Hey,” Libertus says once, when the two of them are passing time with a mismatched chess set someone salvaged, “You know you don’t have to take my orders.”

“I’m still a Glaive,” Atlas says, moving a piece and muttering a soft ‘checkmate’ before he continues, “And you’re still my Captain.”

“You were never officially a Glaive,” Libertus points out, “And the Glaive serves the King. Since there’s no one else with a claim to the throne, you’re the one supposed to be giving me orders.”

Atlas snorts. “I wasn’t raised on war strategy and politics. Besides, I think the current head of Lestallum has that well in hand.”

“The head that you picked,” Libertus says, “But I’ve been meaning to ask you something. Where’d you learn how to fight like a Glaive anyway?”

Atlas pauses, the chess game between them forgotten since Atlas had won.

“I’m not sure,” he admits finally, resting his chin in his hands, “I think it might have happened when I died. I was a Hunter before that, though, so I suppose integrating magic into my fighting style was easy.”

“What?” Libertus snorts, “Did the old Kings come and give you a lesson in magic?”

Atlas laughs and Libertus joins him.

“Who knows,” he teases, “They might have.”

* * *

Cid finds him, after Atlas comes back from a gruelling fight defending a power station.

“Heard bout you’re recent foray into the fray,” Cid says, looking at Atlas as though he’s analyzing something, “Got something that might make the next trip easier, if you want it.”

Atlas raises a brow. “A weapon?”

Cid grins. “Of course, with ya out in the field so often it wouldn’t do to have you killed on account of shoddy weaponry.” Cid beckons for Atlas to follow and Atlas does.

They wind up at Cid’s workbench, upon which sits a lance unlike anything Atlas has ever seen before. It’s very Lucian in design, Atlas thinks, eyeing the single feathered wing near the blunt end of the spear, but it’s beautiful.

Filigree designs are etched into an arrow shape on the bladed end of the lance. Halfway between both ends there is the symbol of the royal family on one side of the lance and on the other side-

Atlas’ breathe catches in his throat. Sitting there, opposite to the symbol of the royal family is a single opal embedded in the lance. Without thinking, Atlas raises his hand to touch the opal bead in his hair.

“Cid,” he says, “Cid I can’t possibly-“

“You’re going to take it,” Cid says firmly, “Reggie would have my head if he knew that I sent one of his boys into the field without a proper weapon. This here lance will be able to handle your magic better than that cast away you’re using now so you best use it well.”

“Cid,” Atlas says after a moment, running his hands over the lance that was gifted to him, “Thank you.”

* * *

Training those he’s given magic too, Atlas finds, is a way to relieve stress. It allows him to fall into the steady rhythm of magic and battle without worrying about dying or having someone else die.

He doesn’t mask his enjoyment of it. Doesn’t try to hide how he grows fond of those he trains.

It’s just as well, because it means he doesn’t have to hide how he mourns when one of them fall.

* * *

Two years pass and Atlas’ armiger keeps on growing. He has twelve royal arms now and the basement of the hotel is almost full of royal coffins.

Half a year passes and there’s been little progress on keeping a Wall up. Cid has made two other prototypes that Atlas tested, and either his magic overloads them or the Wall doesn’t stay up. They’re at a dead end, and Atlas is only grateful that they’ve managed to restore light to most of the outposts.

Another half a year passes, and finally Cid presents him with a metal bracelet with two long needles on the inner curve of the bracelet.

“Give it a try,” Cid encourages when Atlas’ hesitates, “There’s magic in your blood, the needles will pierce you’re skin but I’ve the feeling that’s what we need to get a Wall up and running.”

“Royal blood is always the answer isn’t it?” Atlas mutters, examining the device that looks more like it would belong to the Empire than in Lucis.

“In this case it is,” Cid agrees. His eyes soften as he looks at Atlas. “Are you certain you want to do this? The people might need hope, but you don’t have to go and kill yourself for them.”

Atlas laughs and it’s tired but not bitter.

“You know I have to, Cid,” Atlas says, “It’s our best chance at staying safe. What if something happened to the power grid? We’d all be fucked and I need to know that at least- at least there is something this blood of mine is good for.”

“Then I leave the honours to you,” Cid says, and yet he remains by Atlas in case something happens.

Atlas nods, and without wincing as the needles pierce through his skin and draw blood into the machine he lowers the bracelet onto his wrist.

* * *

He doesn’t scream, and perhaps that’s what scares Cid most as Atlas’ veins flare white with the magic running through them. Atlas grits his teeth and falls to his knees in pain but-

He doesn’t scream. And Cid had been there when Regis had worn the Ring for the first time, had seen how his friend had screamed and writhed on the floor in agony.

‘Although the Ring allows me to wear it,’ Regis had said with an exhausted smile, ‘The impact of wearing it, the weight of magic and knowledge housed within it, it burns as through you. It makes you think you’re already dead.’

Cid had hoped that the machine he had made to mimic the Ring would save Atlas from the pain the Ring brought.

It doesn’t look like he succeeded. Atlas’ skin spilts open and light pours out, in the distance, someone shouts and Cid barks at them to stay back as a Wall forms around Lestallum.

This was Atlas’ choice, it was what Atlas wanted.

That doesn’t mean that Cid feels any less guilty.

* * *

Atlas burns. It is the only way he can think to describe what is happening to him. Light cracks his skins open and spills out into the world and all Atlas can do is grit his teeth together and bare it.

He cannot allow anyone to know that he is in pain. Cannot let anyone lose hope simply because it feels as though he is burning from the inside out.

The pain fades a quickly as it had come and Atlas is left staring at the towering figures of his ancestors. These Kings and Queens do not offer the peace and protection Atlas had felt when he called upon the protection of his mothers family in Galahd, they do not offer sympathy or sorrow. They are cold as they stare at him, lifeless in a way that even the dead should not be.

Atlas stares at them from his place on the floor. He does not move, does not bother to pay them the respect he usually reserves for the dead.

“What is it?” Atlas rasps, “Have you come to judge me?”

There’s a ripple among the forms of the Lucii and Atlas does not flinch.

“You have created a Wall without need of the Ring,” The Mystic says, voice booming and powerful even in death, “That amounts to blasphemy.”

Atlas laughs. “I don’t care.”

“You-“

“I don’t care,” Atlas stresses, “You’re people are dying, your kingdom is in ruins and the very world itself, the Star that you sought to protect is mired in death and blood. We are dying, all of us, we are dying.” Atlas snarls the last word. “And for what?” Atlas demands, “Because your God decided to put on a war play for his own amusement? Because Bahamut thought that instead of dealing with a problem head on he should delegate that task to us mortals?”

Atlas smiles, half-hysteric and with too much teeth. “Here is a lesson you should learn, Mystic, the job of a leader is to protect their people. I don’t care about the machinations of the Astrals. I care for my people first and foremost. I do not care if this Wall I’m making kills me, I do not care if I die and am refused entrance to Etro’s Garden because I went against the will of the Astrals. I do not care. What I care about is making sure that my people, that the people you all abandoned because of your supposed duty to a higher purpose, survive.

“I will go against every Astral, against the will of the Star itself if it means keeping them safe.”

The wall of Lucii grow silent.

Atlas shakes his head in disappointment.

“You’re pathetic,” he announces, “All of you.”

* * *

Libertus watches, he watches and goes to move to rip the Six damned machine that Cid made off of Atlas before it kills the man that he’s grown fond of.

A strong hand clamps down on his arm before he can move.

“Let go of me Marshal,” Libertus says through clenched teeth, “Let me go.

“I can’t go that, Captain,” Cor says as though Atlas isn’t suffering, as though the last Lucis Caelum they have isn’t gasping for breath with his eyes glowing white with magic and light cracking through his skin. “Not when it’s working.”

“Who gives a damn if it works?” Libertus asks fiercely, “It’s killing him.”

“As it had all those who came before,” Cor’s voice is even but there’s a flash of sympathy and regret, of sorrow, in his cold blue eyes that cause Libertus to stay and listen, “I know you want to stop this, I know. But this was Atlas’ choice, would you take it from him?”

“No,” Libertus says, shoulders fading as the light fades from around Atlas and Atlas slumps to the ground. “I wouldn’t.”

* * *

When Atlas wakes, it’s in an actual room instead of one of the shoddy tents he and the other Glaives share. Before he can ask what the fuck is going on, a cough rips itself out of his throat and he finds himself curling in on himself as a coughing fit overtakes him.

A hand on his back, familiar and safe, soothes him through the coughing fit and when Atlas is done they ease him into a sitting position and hand him a glass of water.

“Thanks,” Atlas rasps after drinking, “Libertus- Libertus what happened?” When Atlas looks at his Captain- at his friend- he can see guilt in his eyes.

“Well,” Libertus says, voice light despite the weight weighing him down, “We have a Wall around Lestallum. And despite the fact you’ve been unconscious for three days it’s still going strong.”

Atlas sets the cup of water down on the bedside table with a jerky motion. “What do you mean three days?”

Libertus shakes his head. “You’ve been out of it for three days,” he says and Atlas feels his heart sink to his stomach, “We-“ Libertus pauses, as though searching for words, “We weren’t sure you would wake up.”

“I almost didn’t,” Atlas admits and watches Libertus go white, “The Old Kings, they weren’t pleased with my choice to raise a Wall without their consent or the Ring.”

“Fuck the Old Kings!” Libertus exclaims, “Fuck them! Do they even know what we’re going through? What has happened to the Kingdom they swore to defend?”

“They know.” Atlas is tired. “They know.”

Libertus is silent for a moment. “Do they care?”

“I don’t know,” Atlas admits, and stares out the window and into a darkening sky, “I don’t know.”

* * *

It’s a known fact that Atlas cannot take any missions outside the Wall anymore. While Regis could leave Insomnia and keep the Wall around the city up for short periods of time Atlas is trapped within the city. 

It would be easier, Atlas thinks, if he had access to the Ring. But the Ring disappeared with Noctis and Atlas knows that the blessings of the Old Kings are out of reach for him. They already disapprove of the Wall Atlas is holding up, he highly doubts they would help him enough to leave the Wall standing while Atlas goes out and continues to take missions for the Glaive.

Still, despite the fact that Atlas cannot leave Lestallum, that he’s made the shift from Glaive to resident he cannot remain idle for long and so he finds himself picking up more odd skills. He makes potions with Kimya, he helps Cid fiddle with whatever weapon the older man is working on and when people ask for help around the city Atlas obliges. Atlas keeps helping the Guard and Glaives train. He keeps himself busy and if he finds himself getting tired easier he doesn’t mention it to anyone.

Just because he’s confided to the city doesn’t mean he can’t do anything. He tries to keep himself busy, tries not to wonder what will happen to his people when he dies and the Wall falls.

He prays his family’s faith in the Astral’s wasn’t misplaced.

* * *

Whenever they have time, Libertus and Atlas talk. Their conversations range from whatever happened on Libertus’ recent jaunt outside the Wall to whatever Atlas has been doing to keep busy.

“Are you alright?” Libertus asks Atlas one day as they walk through Lestallum, “You look paler.” At Atlas’ dry look Libertus flushes and corrects himself. “Paler than usual, I mean. You look like you’re exhausted, Atlas. Are you eating enough?”

Atlas laughs at that, covering his mouth with his hand to hide his grin. “I’m fine, Libs,” Atlas says, placing a reassuring hand on Libertus’ shoulder, “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

“It’s the Wall isn’t it? The magic you’re using is taking it’s toll on you already. We can always drop the Wall, we have enough energy-“

“Libertus.” Atlas’ smile is gentle and sad. “We both know that’s not an option. Not anymore. People have grown used to having the Wall back, if we let it fall now it would risk the faith people have in us. Lestallum has become a beacon of hope in a world of darkness. I can’t just let that light fall.”

“Must you be so self-sacrificing?” Libertus sounds pained. “The Wall is killing you.”

“We knew this when Cid started working on this.” Atlas taps the machine bracelet on his wrist. “But we both deemed it worth the risk. Why the change of heart, Libs?”

Libertus is silent for a moment. “You’ve done enough,” he says and Atlas’ eyes widen, “You’re the reason we have power reaching across Lucis, you’re the one that’s been training our new recruits with the Marshal and you’re the one that’s been giving them magic. You’ve done more than anyone and we repay you by making you kill yourself for us it’s not- it’s not just. Not in any sense of the word.” Then, in a quieter voice, Libertus adds. “I’ve lost my family twice now, I don’t want to lose another brother.”

Atlas’ mouth falls open, his eyes wide with shock he knows he looks like a gaping fish but Libertus’ eyes are kind and furious on his behalf and Atlas realizes with a start that he trusts Libertus more than anyone else in Lestallum.

“I-“ Atlas stops then starts again, “-I know, Libertus. I know. But they’re my people Libertus. They’re mine. I can’t leave them in the dark.”

“You’re too kind,” Libertus says, sounding more defeated than angry, “It’s killing you.”

Atlas smiles. “There are worse ways to go.”

* * *

In hindsight, he should have known that his weakening state would become more obvious over time. That sooner or later he would face more than just mere exhaustion as a side effect of holding up the Wall.

He just doesn’t expect it to happen in public. One moment he’s talking to Iris who had just returned from a Hunt with her brother and the next-

The next Atlas feels his knee give out and the ground rush up to meet him. He lands hard on his knees, his instinctive reaction to put his arms out preventing him from smashing his face into the cobblestone streets.

“Fuck,” is all Atlas says as he accepts the hand Iris offers to help him up. The leg that gave out is completely numb and Atlas is more than certain he’ll have bruises on his knees.

Taking a deep breathe to steady himself, Atlas looks down at Iris and all he can ask is.

“Do you have a cane? I think this is going to get worse.”

* * *

It does get worse, Libertus eyes him with worry whenever they meet up and no matter how many assurances that come from Atlas’ lips Libertus is never satisfied.

“Be careful,” Libertus tells him, “Please.”

“I’m not the one risking my life,” Atlas says, teasing, “I’ll be fine.”

They both know it’s not true.

* * *

Atlas is tired. But Atlas is always tired.

Atlas feels a bone deep ache in his body. But Atlas is always in pain. And he hates that it’s become the norm for him to be in pain, to be unable to help Cor train the Glaives and Hunters that Atlas gave magic to. Atlas hates that he can no longer move without shaking, hates that he can’t even paint or hold a brush for long periods of time without his hands hurting and shaking.

Cor mentions that this isn’t normal, that the rapid rate of degradation isn’t something that Regis or Mors went through. Cid said something rude in return and then admitted that Cor was right, that what Atlas is experiencing is likely a result of having to hold up a Wall without a Ring.

Atlas is quiet.

He tells the two of them to prepare Lestallum for his death.

* * *

News gets back to Libertus, because of course it does.

Libertus is furious with him.

“You’re planning on dying,” Libertus accuses.

“Not planning,” Atlas corrects, “I am dying Libertus, I’ve been dying for a long time.”

They’re in Atlas’ shoddy apartment in Lestallum, Atlas sits in a chair by the window, the cane Iris had given him leaning against the wall next to him.

Libertus drops to his knees in front of Atlas and pleads with him.

“Drop the Wall.” Libertus takes one of Atlas’ hands in his own. “Please.”

Atlas smiles and reaches out with a shaking hand to stroke Libertus’ hair.

“You know I can’t do that.”

* * *

Libertus leaves. When he comes back, he’s holding a peace of agate in his hands. It’s a bead, quickly carved with the anak of the Ostium Clan.

He presents it to Atlas, and Atlas’ breath catches in his throat.

“I know you no longer have beads of your own,” Libertus says, fierce and mourning, “I know. But no Galahdian should die without their family by them. You’re my brother, Atlas, and if I cannot be there when you pass, I would at least have my family be there with you.”

“As you said,” Atlas says, his voice shaking, “My beads were lost when Insomnia fell. I-“ Atlas swallows. “I would be honoured if your family guided my way when I fall.”

Libertus’ hands are careful as they braid the bead into Atlas’ long black hair. If Liberuts’ hands shake like Atlas’ do Atlas doesn’t mention it.

* * *

Atlas dreams, an unusual thing to be sure, ever since he began holding the Wall up his sleep has been dreamless, but for the first time in more than seven years Atlas dreams.

His father stands in front of him, and it occurs to Atlas that his weapon is the only one that Atlas does not possess.

If he’s honest, Atlas isn’t sure he wants it.

“King Regis,” Atlas says and does not bow, exhausted even in his dream, “To what do I owe this honour?”

“King Atlas,” Regis says, “I regret not being able to know you in life. It is one regret I will carry with me forever.”

“I am not a king,” Atlas says, “Why don’t you skip the pleasantries and tell me why you are here?”

“My son,” Regis pauses, “Your brother, Noctis, he will be returning soon to return the sun to the sky. When he does so you-“

“I will die,” Atlas finishes, a wry grin on his face, “I know, King Regis, I had thought as much.”

“You do not seemed surprised.”

“I have been dying for years, Your Majesty, I have accepted my fate long ago. I only worry for those I’ve protected for all these years.”

“You say you are not a King.” And Regis sounds amused. “But you speak as one would.”

Atlas laughs. “Maybe, I do. One of my failings I suppose.”

”Not a failing,” Regis says, his voice gentle, “A sign of a good man.”

”It’s hard for a good man to be a king,” Atlas says, “I’m not sure how you managed it.”

Regis is silent for a moment. “I wasn’t. You know I wasn’t.”

”You sacrificed a city for the world,” Atlas agrees, “Not something a good man would do. But I believe- I believe that you were a good father at least.”

”Atlas,” Regis says as the dreams starts to fade, “Thank you.”

* * *

In the end, Atlas does not meet Noctis.

In the end, he does not meet Libertus again either.

In the end, he sits in a chair in Lestallum’s old marketplace and as the sun rises, he smiles.

In the end, light cracks through his skin, bright and burning and when it’s gone the machine that Cid had made lies by itself on the ground. Both of the last Kings of Lucis died as dawn shone over the world for the first time in a decade.

Somewhere, their friends wept.

* * *

Atlas wakes up to the sun shining on his face. Raising his hand to block the light, it takes a second for Atlas to realize that there’s light. That he’s supposed to be dead.

His eyes shoot open, frantic and searching and he finds himself in his apartment. Not the one in Lestallum, but the one in Insomnia, the one he had been overcharged for and the one he lived in when he was trying to make a living as a painter before he moved out of the city only to move back to Insomnia later and die for it.

Altas’ breath catches in his throat and he shoves himself off his bed and stumbles toward the window. His gaze is drawn upward, toward the shimmering Wall surrounding the city.

His own magic aches at the sight. Blinking back tears, tears at the thought that his rest had been denied to him, tears at the thought that he’s going to have to live through hell again, Atlas steps away from the window and runs his hand through his hair.

Scar tissue, tissue that had not been on his hands last time he had been this age catches his eyes. Examining his hands in the dark, even then Atals can see the lightning bolt shaped scars covering both of his hands.

Twice-born, he thinks, and his heart drops. Had he been reborn? Or merely shoved back into the past? The scarring on his hands are proof that he’s died, that he’s set foot into Etro’s Garden and been sent back out to fulfill a purpose.

But what? Atlas doesn’t know. Dropping his hands to his sides Atlas finds that for the first time, in a very long time, he doesn’t know what to do.

He thinks of Libertus, of how his almost-Shield would have some advice to offer.

He thinks of Libertus, of the Glaives and how Libertus had loved them all and a plan starts to form.

**Author's Note:**

> I hurt my hands knitting because *dat hyper mobility baby* so I shouldn’t have written anything but i have no self control so whoops here’s a 7k fic


End file.
